A Role to Play
by Walder
Summary: After a long day of hard work, you and your mates sit down for drinks at the inn. But after you unintentionally insult an elderly barmaid, you discover a tale of terror, hardship, and loss unlike any you've heard before, about a man and his selfless sacrifice.


(( The prologue to my first real story. Yes, it's in second person. This will not be for the whole story, it's just to set up the scene.

If I owned WoW, I'd be rolling up to the Bellagio in a Rolls Royce instead of writing this.

Enjoy! ))

It's been a long day.

Exhausting doesn't _begin_ to describe it. Days at the mines used to be tough enough, but then the overseer started listening to some complaints. People didn't like working all week. They'd like at least _one_ day off. So, the overseer agreed, on one condition: 3 tons of ore needed to be brought in every week. That meant every miner had to mine fifty freaking pounds of ore _every single day_.

But that wasn't the worst part. Some miners were so desperate for time off, that when someone started slacking off, they got worse than the taskmasters about beating a second wind into them. More mortalities and injuries happened in this one week than in the last month.

But, at the mine's entrance, when the overseer looked at the week's quota, he grunted, and spoke in the kind of voice a father uses when he lets some kid on a date with his daughter, "This isn't a right, you know, it's a privilege. The day these results don't show, it's back to seven day work-weeks! But, for now. . ." and then he stepped aside. He was probably expecting a tidal wave of the overjoyed masses, but most could only muster up the strength and speed of zombies.

So now that you're aching in joints you didn't know you had, your spine's been temporarily bent over into an unfixable hunch, and you're still choking on the mine's pollution, all you want to do is go to the inn with your friends and drink until you forget your names.

You get there, and find it's filled with the working class, like you and your comrades, getting wasted. It's not The Lion's Pride (thank God), but it's rowdy.

There's one last empty table that your friends have to steal chairs for to fit at, and a few minutes later a barmaid comes by. She's looks to be in her fifties; thick, matronly, with wiry grey-black hair and a huge chest that probably looked killer when she was young, but long since gave way to gravity and liver-spots.

She comes by, puts a calloused hand on her hip, and says, "What'll you be 'avin?"

While your friends take a minute to order, you notice a guy across the inn. He stands out because he's decked down head-to-toe in fantastic glowing armor that makes his already amazing body look even more Herculean. There's at least three gorgeous girls practically swooning over him. But what catches you the most is the _gold_ he's throwing at the barman. Gold! He's tossing the kind of money you make in a month like it was copper. He briefly catches your eye; his face looks drunk on more than alcohol. 'Success,' it says, 'I have it and you don't.'

The inn is noisy, but you can make out what he and his girls are talking about.

"So what do you do?" says a girl with golden hair and gravity-defying breasts.

"I'm an adventurer," he says, and each of the girls giggle like schoolgirls.

You're proud of your job. You're a light-fearing, hard-working loyal citizen of Stormwind. But you can't help but think in the back of your head that you'd trade your first-born child for some of _that_.

"Jealous?" says the barmaid. She gestures to the adventurer. Your friends are all looking at you. Apparently they made their orders. "Well, don't be," the barmaid continues, "we get two or three 'o those cocky blowhards 'ery day. They're all the same; they come in 'ere like they built the 'fricken place, drop gold like they could crap it out whenever, and expect everyone the see the stars shine out their arse. 'An for what? Cause they act like lemmings 'ery day, jumping at 'ery task anyone ever gives 'em for trinkets 'an coin? Look at the town board. Three or four die 'ery day. They don't even hold funerals for 'em anymore; just burn 'em 'an wait for anyone who cares to pick 'em up! Good riddance, I say! The less of 'em the better!"

Then she storms off. She didn't even take your order. A while later she comes back with steaming plates and full, frothing drinks for your friends, but she immediately goes off to fill another order or clean someone else's table. Your friends are kind enough to share with you, and ensure it's probably just her time of the month.

The night goes on. The crowd starts to dwindle. The adventurer goes home with all three girls on his massive biceps. The travelling bard packs his things and stumbles out before puking his guts onto the doorstep. Pretty soon it's just you, your friends, and a few other stragglers, deliberately nursing drinks and cold plates of food. The barman and maids eye the inn with contempt. Everyone knows it's almost time for their shifts to be off, but no one cares. No one wants to leave. Especially not you.

Because what's outside this inn, after all? Working a back-breaking job for peanuts? Trying and failing to screw someone, only to settle for the first fish-faced moron who says hi? Watching what few good looks and short youth you have be quickly chipped away by time and hardship?

Your thoughts are constantly brought back to the adventurer; the barrel-chested, square-jawed stud with the admiration of all around him, and cash flowing from his pockets like waterfalls. Who did he have to blow to get all that? What lucky arse gets to start down that road? Because you've never heard of nobles going for that lifestyle. Come to think of it, you're pretty sure you've never exactly heard anyone going around, giving people a contract and asking them to sign on the dotted line for fame fortune.

So how did they get it?

The barmaid stomped over to the table and said, hands on her hips, annoyed as hell, "Will there by anything _else_?"

Your friends laughed. Damn right they wanted more!

Suddenly, you began to wonder why the woman hadn't brought you anything. It was definitely something you said. Or, rather, what you didn't. Something about the adventurer.

"Hey," you said, against your better judgment, "You acted all pissy about that adventurer. What do you got against them?"

She glares at you for a long while. Your friends look at you with a 'you're going to get it now' look. The woman, though, only shakes her head.

"My. . . husband, was an adventurer. 'Sorta. He died a while ago."

A brief pause. This was unexpected, and you guys collectively feel like dicks, offering mumbled apologies.

The woman waves her hand in dismissal. "It's fine. I'm sorry for 'wailin 'atcha."

Again against your better judgment (though you better judgment hasn't really been better in any respect tonight), you ask how he died. She shrugs.

"It's. . . it's a long story, of times long passed. It'd take all night to tell. You all probably have families you be 'needin to get back to."

You all glance at each other, and with a look convey your thoughts. It's alright, you say, we we've got no families to go home to, and nothing to wake up for.

The woman shrugs again, and leaves suddenly. Just when you all started thinking that maybe she'd went off to bawl her eyes out, she comes back with a full keg of beer, and a huge plate of boar ribs, propping them up on the big chairs around the fireplace, gesturing for you all to come over.

Everyone, even her, fill up their mugs and plates. Then, in a huge, husky voice, she starts speaking of a time long ago, during the First War, when the orcs first started pouring from the Dark Portal. . .


End file.
